The Tricks of Creative Navigation
by analine
Summary: The job is finished, but it's snowing like crazy, and Dean is stubborn, especially with a sprained knee.


**Title:** The Tricks of Creative Navigation  
**Characters/Pairing:** Sam, Dean  
**Genre**: Gen, hurt/comfort  
**Warnings/Spoilers**: none  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Word Count:**~5,100

**Summary: **The job is finished, but it's snowing like crazy, and Dean is stubborn, especially with a sprained knee.

**Notes**: Well, this was supposed to be a short little hurt-comforty thing about Dean spraining his knee in the middle of a blizzard, and I suppose that's basically what it is, it's just a few times longer than I'd meant it to be, with some S2 angst added in for good measure. Set between _Playthings_ and _Nightshifter_, more or less. ...Also, Happy Holidays/Happy New Year! :)

* * *

"Jesus, it's cold out here," Dean says, raising his voice over the wind, which is coming down through the trees in huge gusts that cut through his jacket like it's not even there, chilling him right down to his bones.

The snow continues to swirl around them, like it has been ever since they stumbled out into it after taking out what could have been a whole nest of vampires. It ended up being just being a rogue pair, obviously not of the cow-blood drinking persuasion this time. These guys had definitely been snacking on the locals. And thanks to Sam and Dean, that privilege has now been officially revoked.

The old farm house they'd tracked them to is pretty far off the main road. Now that they're both out in one piece, monsters successfully ganked, Dean figures they can write this off as a good day. Provided they didn't get snowed in here, and could actually make it back to the car without enlisting in the help of sled dogs.

Big, fluffy snowflakes gather on their shoulders and on the tops of their heads as they make their way back down the road.

The snow had started on the way up, but there hadn't been nearly as much of it on the ground then. Dean definitely hadn't expected this whole blizzard thing the weather had going on right now.

On their way here, they'd been busy going over the game plan, what they'd do if it turned out to be a larger nest after all - Bobby'd been called up on speed dial - and needless to say, they hadn't really been tuned in to the Weather Channel.

There were lots of things they hadn't been tuned in to, come to mention it, but then again, that was the beauty of the job. Not much time left to reflect on the past, or fear the future when you were fighting for your life against a couple of pagan gods, or a freshly-woken vamp nest. Hell, even your run of the mill spirits and ghosts tended to demand one's full attention most of the time.

That's what Dean tells himself, anyway - his motivation to keep on keeping on - because really? He's _tired_. Lately, he's been realizing just how much of this job is bullshit piled on top of never-ending bullshit. He's especially over the nightmares, almost all of which involve his father. Whispered words, and hospital beds and Sam's fucking _destiny_. Sometimes they end with Sam's blood on his hands, and a thousand-pound weight in Dean's heart that he knows he'll never be able to lift. So if he can end the day bone tired after a job or two, too exhausted to take off his shoes before collapsing on some cheap motel bed, he'll take it.

There are always things to kill; the more complicated the job, the harder to track, the better, as far as Dean's concerned right now. Sam's been pretty good at finding complicated lately.

Damn if this snow isn't a bitch though. It feels like they've been walking for miles already and the car is nowhere in sight.

On the up side, concentrating on the cold and the snow takes Dean's mind off his knee, the fresh throbbing ache of it, and the pain that shoots up and down his leg like fire with pretty much every step. He squints up at the sky, at the clouds, and wonders how far they have to go for about the tenth time in ten minutes. Their footprints from the way up are long since covered by now. This snow isn't kidding around.

His knee isn't kidding around either - it feels like it's on fire, hot stabbing fire, actually, which is kind of ironic, given the state of the blizzard currently whipping around them.

"Son of a bitch," he mumbles, and then shivers again for good measure.

"You are such a wimp," Sam counters, glancing over at him, his eyes shining in the late-afternoon grey.

"Whatever, dude," Dean says. "I'm fucking freezing."

Sam chuckles, and other than that, and the sound of their feet crunching along in the snow, it's quiet on the road in front of them. It's more of a country lane than a road, anyway, and with all this snow, if it wasn't for the leafless trees stretching their branches out and lining each side, he's not sure they'd be able to figure out where the pavement stopped and the grass began.

"You do remember that it was your idea to park all the way back on the main road, right?" Sam says after a minute. His cheeks are shiny red beacons against the white-on-white landscape in front of them. "Element of surprise and all that."

"Yeah, yeah, I remember. Stupidest idea I've had all day."

The wind picks up a little, rattles the branches of the trees, and shakes down a little more snow. It piles up on top of the thick carpet of white that's already there, fluffy and light. Dean pulls his leather jacket a little tighter around his sides, turns up his collar, and shoves his hands down deep in his pockets.

"Think we'll make it back before dark?" Sam asks, and Dean just shrugs.

He bites his cheek to keep from wincing, too, because he knows better. If he starts that now, he'll never stop.

Sam is keeping pace with him, not going on ahead, even though Dean feels like he's practically crawling along. God, he feels _old_. All week he's been telling himself to just walk it off already. It's just an old sprain acting up. But tonight he'd gotten knocked down to his knees twice by that damn vamp before he'd taken him down, and both times it'd happened so fast he hadn't been able to break his fall, which would have been really nice, considering.

He really wishes Sam would just go on ahead though, and stop looking over at him every two and a half seconds like he's got something to say, but just can't be bothered to open his damn mouth.

"What, Sam? Spit it out already, would you?"

Sam stops walking, and so Dean stops too, and they're just standing there in the middle of the road. More accurately, they're standing in the middle of a snow drift where the road should be, and Sam is leveling his eyes at him, squinting from the blowing snow. That look in his eyes has made Dean squirm in his skin ever since they were kids, but Dean just raises his eyebrows, and his chin, and stares right back at Sam.

"Come on, just say what you want to say. I'm sorry about not covering your ass right away back there, he had me pinned, and—"

Sam looks confused for a second and then shakes his head. "No, it's not that."

"What then?"

Sam gestures to Dean's leg. "Your knee. I saw you go down back there. Why don't you let me go get the car, and come back for you."

"What, so I can freeze to death out here by myself? No thanks."

"You're sure you're okay then?" Sam asks carefully. "Because you're limping pretty badly."

"I'll be fine," Dean says. "Come on. The day's not getting any longer with us just standing here."

"Fine," Sam says. "But just for the record, I offered, okay."

Dean rolls his eyes, starts plowing forward through the snow again. "Yeah, yeah, gold star, asshole."

* * *

By the time they get back to the car, the light has almost faded away behind the bare skeleton trees on either side of the main road. The Impala is just where they left her, but she's covered in snow now. At least two or three inches have fallen since they've been gone.

Dean pulls his sleeve up and over his hand and is about to start on the windshield, but Sam is right behind him, brandishing the beat up old ice brush from the back seat. Dean had no idea that thing was even still back there.

"I'll take care of this," Sam tells him. "Just get in and get the heater going."

Dean stares at him for a moment before he decides it's just not worth a fight over who gets to give orders here, especially not now, when between the storm blustering around them, and the fact that his knee feels like it's waging war against the rest of his body, he can hardly see straight.

So he gets into the car, sinks back into the driver's seat, and promptly realizes how much better it is not to be standing up right now. He lets out a shaky breath, and cranks up the heat.

"You okay?" Sam asks when he finally slides into the passenger seat. His cheeks are wet with snow, and there are huge flakes in his hair that melt immediately, and drip off onto his shirt. "Dean?"

Dean sighs, and pulls the gearshift into reverse. He lays off the gas a little when he feels the lack of traction in the tires.

"Man, you are a pain in the ass tonight, you know that?"

"I'm just trying to—"

"I know what you're trying to do," Dean says, not liking the tension in his voice, but also not really able to stop it. "And I don't need your help."

Sam takes a deep breath, but doesn't say a word. Dean watches him fix his eyes on whatever's outside the window, which to be honest, isn't much. The sun has slid down past the trees now. It's getting darker outside around them, slate grey clouds closing in.

The main road is mostly clear from snow. It looks like the salt trucks have already come by, but it's still coming down pretty hard. He's glad they don't have far to go to make it back to the motel.

"You know what, Dean, that's fine," Sam says a second later, picking right up where he left off. "This whole, 'it doesn't matter what happens to me, just go on ahead, Sammy' act of yours. I'm not buying it."

"Okay…"

Sam shakes his head, and lets out a long breath.

"But you know what? Whatever. Suit yourself."

Dean levels his gaze at Sam for a moment as he guides the Impala along the icy road, lights glistening off the snow.

"It's really not that big of a deal, Sam."

Sam huffs out a breath into his hands, fiddles with the heat for a second, and when he looks at Dean again, his eyes soften a little.

"You've been complaining about your knee all week, Dean," Sam says. He cuts his brother off when he starts to protest. "And after today, you have to admit—it's slowing you down."

"Oh, so I'm cramping your style?" Dean asks, a little defensively. "That's what this is about?"

Sam stares at him for another second. Runs a hand through his hair. He looks tired, resigned, and something twists in Dean's stomach, makes him think of Dad and last words and blood on his hands and he _hates _it, how it makes him feel, how it makes him act sometimes.

"Yeah, Dean, sure," Sam agrees. "That's what it's about."

* * *

They get back to the motel just before the sun officially goes down, but with the snow clouds blanketing the sky it's dark enough that the motel room lights glow from the other side of the windows, warm and inviting. Dean half hops, half hobbles from the parking lot to their room, and then over to the bed, while Sam grabs the ice bucket and sets off on his own without a word.

Outside the window, through the gap in the thick drapes, Dean can see the snow gathering on the window sill, on the thick bushes that flank the door outside their room.

There's something almost peaceful about it, which sounds incredibly dull and predictable in Dean's head, but whatever, he's thinking it anyway. Snow covers up a lot of crap. Puts a pretty face on a town that on a normal night wouldn't look like anything special at all. As if anything could dress this up, turn them into a couple of college kids heading back home on a road trip for the holidays, maybe, instead of a couple of machete-wielding vampire-killers, washing the blood off their hands in the snow. Right. Because that makes sense.

Sam closes the door behind him, loudly. He shakes the snow off his hair, and stamps his boots against the rug in front of the door before he crosses the room with a beat up looking ice bucket, and a couple of plastic bags that it looks like he dug out of the back seat.

He tosses the key on the table by the window, and Dean flops back on the bed and grabs the remote, flicks on the TV. Some old Western is on, shoot-em-up style, and the tinny gunfire fills the room as Sam sinks down onto the bed next to him. He's shoveling ice into one of the plastic bags, one eye on the TV.

"Grab me one of those pillows," he instructs, and Dean does, reaches over to the pile on the bed next to him. He grabs the biggest one (always too many pillows, Dean's never understood that), and hands it to Sam, who studies it for a second like he's expecting it to get up and do tricks.

"What are you doing, anyway?" Dean asks, eyes on the TV.

He's seen this one already. Knows how it's going to end, with the guy in the brown coat double-crossing his partner, turning the entire town against the poor sod before he figures it out.

"What does it look like I'm doing, Dean," Sam says, and then he's tugging at the edge of Dean's jeans, and rolling the ends up carefully, past Dean's knee. "I'm doing what you should have done about three days ago. Pick up your leg," he instructs, and Dean does. Sam sets the pillow underneath.

"Get me another one," Sam tells him, and when Dean ignores him, he reaches over him, and gets one himself. The ends of his hair are wet from the snow, and they brush against Dean's chin for a second.

Sam tucks the second pillow under Dean's knee and grabs the bag of ice.

"How does that feel?" Sam asks once he's gotten the ice positioned around Dean's knee. He's double bagged it, and he ties the ends together under Dean's leg to hold everything in place.

"Okay," Dean says, his eyes flickering over Sam's face for a second, trying to figure out if he's still mad at him for what he said on the way over here. He can't tell though; Sam is the master of the stoic blank face when he wants to be, after all.

"It is cold enough?"

"Yeah, Sam, it's pretty damn cold. Freezing, actually."

"Good," Sam says, his face still completely blank. "When it starts to melt, I'll go get some more. You should keep it iced for a while."

Dean just nods, shifts a little on the bed.

"And don't move too much – you need to keep it elevated."

"Okay, okay."

"Jackass," he adds, raising his eyebrows at Sam.

"Jerk," Sam says, but he's smiling a little as he picks up the ice bucket, and a tiny flicker of relief warms in Dean's chest.

Dean watches Sam as he crosses the room, watches him sit down at the desk, and open up his laptop. Soon enough he starts tapping away.

Dean wonders if he's closing in on their next job. If this one will take them closer to the demon, or further away. For a second, he considers which is better, even though he knows that the answer is obvious.

They have to kill this thing, of course they do, but honestly, the part where the hunt is the only thing on their minds, the part where they do their job, and end up back in one piece at the end of the night, and live to do this another day, where every decision isn't life or death, or promises, or Dad's legacy, or anything more complicated than killing something bad before it hurts someone else, well… He kind of likes that part, kind of prefers it to the alternative, really.

Dean stares past Sam, past the TV and out the window. It's still snowing. He wonders how much will be out there in the morning. If he and Sam will have to flip a coin to see who gets to take the shovel from the trunk and spend their morning digging the tires out.

Once when they were kids - he'd been about twelve, so Sammy'd still been small - they'd spent the better part of one winter in a small town in Wisconsin, where it'd snowed almost constantly for three months straight. All Sammy ever wanted to do was go out in it - sledding, snow ball fights, forts made of thick snow slabs that they left up for weeks.

Dean always complained, but secretly, he couldn't get enough of it. They had a couple of beat up old plastic sleds that they found out in the woods - a yellow one, and a blue one, and they'd race each other down the hills behind the motel. Dean always made Sammy use the good one, the yellow one with the handle that wasn't busted, so you could actually stop if you needed to without digging your heels into the snow.

One night they were out after dark and they weren't supposed to be, but Sammy kept asking for one more run, and Dad probably wasn't even home yet, so Dean let them stay, until finally his feet were soaked and he could barely feel his fingers. He'd pretty much had to carry Sam back inside that night, and there may have been a little kicking and screaming at first, until he'd gotten through to Sammy. It was dark, he'd catch pneumonia, Dad would kill him. Sammy had been mad, but he'd listened. Sulked for the whole night until Dad got back, but he'd listened.

Back then, Sammy always listened to Dean, and nothing ever felt final, like it was drawing to a close, even when it was.

They left town the morning after that for a hunt in Florida, and it was years before they ever saw a decent amount of snow again. There was a part of Dean that wished he'd let them stay out there all night, catch frostbite and pneumonia and everything else if that's what it took.

Dean flexes his toes, shifts his knee around on the pillow a little. It feels better. Still not great, but better. Definitely not on fire anymore, at any rate. He glances at Sam, at the creases in his forehead as he studies whatever it is he's reading on his computer.

"Sammy?"

"Yeah?" Sam says and looks up from the keyboard. The artificial light glows against his skin, bluish white in the dim room.

"Thanks," Dean says. He watches Sam nod. He looks a little surprised, but he doesn't say anything, just watches Dean for a second. Then he laughs.

"You know, if you're trying to apologize for being an asshole before, don't worry," he says, raising his eyebrows. "I think I'm used to it."

Dean rolls his eyes, and gives Sammy the finger for good measure, before he shifts his attention back to the TV. He's asleep before the double-cross happens – before the guy in the black hat realizes that everything he thought he knew about his partner was dead wrong, before it all catches up to him.

He dreams of snow that transforms the world into a sparkly white wonderland, and of that stupid blue sled, though in the dream, it's like magic. He doesn't have to use any of his tricks of creative navigation to stop from slamming into every tree in his path, he just glides right past them like they're not even there. He's just along for the ride. It's exhilarating, and easy, and uncomplicated, with Sammy racing along next to him through the snow.

* * *

When he wakes up, the ice is gone, but his knee is still propped up under the pillows, and one of the extra blankets from the closet is tucked up under his chin.

There's early morning light sneaking its way in under the gaps in the curtains, and Dean looks over at the other bed. Sam's asleep with his computer on his lap, still wearing the same clothes he was wearing last night.

Dean closes his eyes, and when he opens them again, the curtains are drawn, and the room is bright with sun. There's coffee in a paper cup, still warm, on the night stand next to his bed.

"What time is it?"

"Just after ten," Sam says, without checking his watch. Dean wonders if he's been out.

He stretches a little, and then makes the mistake of moving his leg, and flexing his knee a little. The ache is dull, but definitely still there. So, not magically cured overnight after all. He sighs.

"Man, why didn't you wake me up?" His voice is groggy. He's been in this bed too long. "We should get going."

Sam doesn't answer him, and as Dean sits up and eyes the room, he sees Sam's crap is still all over the place - two pairs of boxers and a couple of t-shirts in a pile next to the bed, wet socks still plastered against the ancient radiator. Definitely not the signs of getting going.

"What's going on, Sam."

"Nothing," Sam says. He shrugs, a little uneasily, like he's expecting a fight, even though his voice is all cool indifference. "I just thought we'd lay low here for a day or so before getting back on the road."

"And why would we do that?"

Sam doesn't answer him right away, so Dean's pretty sure whatever eventually comes out of his mouth is a going to be at least half lies.

"Well, for starters," Sam says evenly. "There's a lot of snow out there."

"Seriously? Snow? That's all you've got?"

"And because we could both use a day off every once in a while, alright." Sam is starting to raise his voice, and Dean can hear the anger, the frustration creeping in. "Haven't you ever heard of a weekend?"

"It's Tuesday, Sam." Dean watches his brother as he paces back and forth on the other side of the room. "Are you going to tell me what this is about?"

Sam just glares at him for a second, and then shakes his head, in that special way that means he's done, he's officially changing the subject, and for whatever reason, Dean allows it. He's got the keys to the car, for one thing.

He takes a sip of coffee. It's not great, but it is black, and caffeinated, and getting cold quickly. Dean figures the least he can do is put it out of its misery.

"So I went out this morning, picked you up a few things," Sam says eventually, and tosses him a plastic bag.

"What's all this?"

"Painkillers to take the swelling down, and a couple of ace bandages. I'll help you wrap it after we ice it again."

"Dude, I am _not _wearing that," Dean says, finishing off the coffee, dregs and all. "At least not until we've gotten some breakfast. Think this place has room service?"

* * *

"You know what we should be doing," Dean offers after they'd wandered over to the motel lobby for a completely unsatisfying continental breakfast. "We should be out looking for the demon."

They're back in the room now. Dean's foot is propped up on the desk chair, and Sam is busy with the bandage, which, as it turns out, Dean is definitely wearing. Sam had given him a speech over slightly stale cornflakes. He'd read about how to deal with Dean's knee, and he assured Dean that ice, and wrapping it up were the key to fixing things for good, instead of just ignoring them, and hoping they'd go away on their own, which Dean admits hasn't worked all that well so far.

Sam stretches the bandage around Dean's leg, snaking it around, up and back in a crisscross pattern that ends up wrapped neatly around Dean's swollen knee.

"Find out if Ash has heard anything about any of the others," Dean continues, though he's well aware of the fact that Sam is ignoring him.

"If Ash had heard anything, he'd let us know," Sam says dismissively. The fingers that brush against Dean's leg are cold, and leave the skin bristled in their wake. "The world isn't going to come to an end if we take a day or two off. Weren't you telling me pretty much the same thing a few weeks back?"

And yeah, Dean supposes he had said that, but that was before crazy Gordon and before people started dying, and now he's not so sure. He's scared as hell that if they don't keep moving, something is going to _find_them, something he doesn't know how to get rid of, and he's got to figure out how to protect Sammy before that happens. He doesn't say that, though, just swallows hard past the stubborn lump in his throat, and meets Sam's eyes.

"We're wasting time," he says, as Sam pulls the bandage a little tighter against his skin. "That's all I'm saying."

Sam sighs, and then swats at Dean's fingers as he tries to smooth the bandage down underneath the curve of his knee.

"Can you just let me do this? Move your hands."

Dean flashes him a knowing smile. "You're really enjoying this, aren't you, Florence Nightingale."

"Yeah, well, you're welcome," Sam says, fastening the ends of the bandage together, and moving his hands away. "Is that okay? Too tight?"

"It's fine," Dean says. "Thanks," he adds, but he's not quite able to keep the sarcasm out of his voice, and Sam rolls his eyes at him. Dean sighs. "Look, you know as well as I do that we need to be out there wasting something instead of-"

"Stop it," Sam says.

"Excuse me?"

"Just stop it," Sam says again, and stands up. He pushes the chair away from him with too much force and it thumps against the desk. He looks down at Dean, and his eyes are flashing dangerously. Dean has gotten used to that look in Sam's eyes lately, but that doesn't mean he likes it. He knows it means that his brother is scared, and dammit if it doesn't remind him of just how fucking terrified he is, too.

"We're off-duty today. Okay? Let's just… go get some real food. Maybe watch a movie on pay per view or something."

Then Sam's eyes soften a little. "Dean, I'm serious. Just for today."

He's laying it on thick right now, staring at Dean with his brow knitted together and his shoulders slumped forward, just waiting for Dean to fold. He knows Dean's never been anything but a sucker for that look.

"Yeah, yeah, okay," Dean says, of course he does. "Just stop it with the puppy dog eyes already. You're killing me, here."

"Still snowing?" he asks after a second.

"Yeah," Sam says, and he crosses the room and pulls back the drapes.

They stand there for a second, watching it come down, watching it gather on the bare branches of the trees lining the parking lot, so heavy they're bending and curving under the weight. There are ice crystals on the windows, and the snow is piling up on the windowsill. Dean can see that the hood of the Impala is painted white now, powder collecting around the lights and along the bumper.

A couple of kids are making their way across the parking lot. They're both stuffed into ski jackets and ski pants that look a size too small, probably due to all the layers underneath, and the smaller one has a big orange hunting cap on that keeps falling down over his eyes. They're dragging a wooden sled behind them.

"Hey, you remember those sleds we had when we were kids?"

"Sure," Sam says, and his eyes are on the kids outside the window, too, a ghost of a smile on his lips. "Why?"

"Nothing, just… We should go again, sometime."

"I don't think they make sleds big enough, Dean."

Dean shrugs, then smiles. "Not for you, anyway."

"Not like that ever stopped us before," Sam says, and there's a tiny hint of nostalgia in his eyes, Dean can see it. "We grew out of those things way before Dad made us throw them away."

"Exactly," Dean agrees. "See, even you have to admit that not all our childhood memories were crap."

Sam just laughs, and outside, it's like someone's shaken up a snow globe – a gust of wind sweeps up around the branches of the trees as the kids move past, their footprints covered almost immediately with fresh snow that swirls around them.

They watch the kids for another moment, until they disappear out of sight behind the cars at the far end of the parking lot, orange hat bobbing away. Before Dean knows it, Sam has flopped back on the bed, and he's wondering aloud if anything's on TV, if they'll be able to convince anyone to deliver pizza to them in this weather.

Screw destiny, and screw promises, Dean thinks, as he takes a look around the room, the piles of dirty laundry on the floor, Sam stretched out on the bed, his laptop on the nightstand.

Dean'll take _this _- a bandaged up knee, a blizzard, a couple of off-duty hunters, just for today, and he'll hold onto it as long as he can, and when he can't hold onto it anymore, that's when he'll give this whole thing up for good. Not a damn second sooner.

He reaches down and touches his knee, feels the layers of bandage stretched tight over skin and muscle and bone, taut and deliberate and strong, holding everything together perfectly, and thinks yeah, okay, maybe Sam really does know what he's talking about every once in a while.

The whole giant pain in the ass thing, well, that was obviously just an added bonus.

**end**


End file.
